Promesa
After Johanna Hamann
Like a fig, ostiole closed,
or the mass my brother’s first
father kicked onto the dog’s
belly. The tassels between
my fingers exposed the drapes’
center draw as he drawled
my brother’s name, lysol
and cigarette haze
jutting from the grip fixed
under the ringer. Memory
keeps us restrained, estranged
to reflection’s riposte
or whatever reverie might
cross the doorway, or
the other side of childhood
where I dig burnt spoons
from the basket of a hotel
bathroom. My brother attests
the lump grew globose
as a bulb, supple as a blossom
choked off the branch.
His breath scatters even
as time limits his vision,
as the girl I was
sways toe to toe atop
the baseboard’s incline.
Then the slump of bare
heels against tile. Let go
the curtain to try conviction.
Pick a fig to pause its ripe.